Listen to the Rain
by Domward's Mistress
Summary: Edward reminisces. Angsty vampslash. Smut. Rated M.


This has not been beta'd. Or even read over. It hit me, I wrote it, now it's here. Apologies for all typos, missing words, etc.

"~***~"

I've always loved the sound of rain. There aren't many things I remember from my human life, odd little glimpses and pieces; the scent of my mother's hair, the creaking of the stairs in our Victorian home, and the sound of rain. Even then, it soothed me. Battering the windows, it clinks and thuds with varying force.

"Please," he rasps at my feet.

He's beautiful there, on his knees, one hand resting on my hip as the other jerks his cock inside of his jeans. A chuckle escapes my lips because, for all of his wanton pleading, he's not the begging type outside of this room. Outside of this moment. He's too strong for that; blank and detached. Clinical in every aspect of this life we pretend to lead. Ironically emotionless, given his talent.

But here, with me, he always, always begs.

Breathing in deeply, I taste his arousal on my tongue. It's heady, decadent; a mixture of his and my own. He loves sucking me, loves to turn me into an incoherent mess with his tongue and his teeth. Usually, I love it as well but tonight, I just want to feel him inside of me. I need that steady rhythm and his heavy sighs.

I need the distraction he can always provide. For tonight, my memories are forceful and pressing. Memories of my maker, my old lover, of times when happiness was like air.

Even as I'm placed on the bed, my thoughts turn to _him_. Of the first time he took me in such a way, frightened of damning his soul further and tarnishing mine, but completely unable to fight his need for me. In all of my years, I've never seen a desire stronger than the one he felt for me that night. It had been building from the very beginning, when he saved me from an untimely death to give me new life as his companion.

And for years, that is what we were. Companions, mates, everything the other needed. We spent our days exploring the city and each other. We spent the nights the same. He taught me to hunt animals, I showed him how to love me without guilt. We grew and loved and simply existed. Blissful, content.

But giving me a new life wasn't the only change he created in me. When he brought her home, I knew things would never be the same. I knew I would never be the same. I could see it in his thoughts; how beautiful she was to him, how completely perfect and right. Everything he could ever want.

Everything he was to me.

I begged him not to do it. "Stay with me," I said. "Love me. Keep me." But, alas, my pleading was not enough to deter the love he already felt for her, and so it was done.

The day they married was the day I changed for the second time. My spirit died with his vows, and every night thereafter. Watching your mate consummate his marriage with another is likely to change anyone, human or not.

Jasper kisses me with all he has, never anything less. The arousal that pours from him has never ebbed, never lessened, and though I am grateful for it, I am not shocked. Because if I had just one chance to love _him _again, even with everything that has happened, it would be with nothing less than an otherworldly desire.

_He_ was always such a passionate lover. Hours upon days upon weeks were spent with him exploring every inch of my body. Touching, tasting, learning. He loved teasing me; playful and seductive with a feral grin and easy words. Sometimes, when I feel strong enough, I entertain those memories, recalling every last second of our time that I can before it's too much. It always ends too quickly, either with heartbreak or an orgasm. Sometimes both.

Jasper bites at my hip, hoping the sting of his venom will bring my attention back to him. "Stay with me," he commands, and I chuckle at the irony.

"I'm here," I respond, touching his cheek.

He doesn't even look sad when he tells me, "You're not, but that's nothing new." He's used to it by now.

Down the hall, I can hear her humming a tune from the fifties, hoping to drown out the noises coming from my room. She always does everything she can to give the semblance of privacy. One caring gesture among many that she does.

I very nearly killed her in those early years. With every sweet word and motherly tendency, I hated her more. Secretly, I prayed she would meet her end by hands other than my own, simply so that I could console him after her passing. It would have been so very perfect; holding him in my arms, soothing his dry sobs, kissing his hair. And then, slowly, he would realize that I could love him the same way she did, and we could be the way we were. Together, fulfilled, whole.

Happy.

But that is merely another fantasy that I entertain from time to time.

"I wish you loved me," Jasper says blankly as he pushes inside of me.

"I do," I groan, accepting his length. "As much as I possibly can."

He thrusts harshly, stealing my useless breath and I know it's going to be one of those nights. Where his anguish at unrequited love matches my own. "But I'll never be him, will I? I'll never be your sweet Carlisle." He grits his teeth, digs his nails into my stone skin. "I fucking hate him. I hate him because he has what I want, yet does nothing but crush it."

My heart. My love. My desire.

"As much as I can, Jasper," I repeat, pulling him down to reach his lips with my own. "What's left of me is yours." It's true. Whatever miniscule part of my heart may be left belongs to the vampire hovering above me.

Growling, he nips at my ear and I know my throat will be next. He's marked me three times in our years together, always on nights like this. It's his way of claiming me, and I'll happily give him whatever consolation I can, even if it's a scar on my body.

The rain is coming harder now, and all I can think of is _his_ face, decades ago, chasing me through the woods in the midst of a thunderstorm. I was always faster and he always loved the hunt. His eyes gleamed so beautifully as he took me on the forest floor, his hair a mess from the rain but still so utterly perfect to me.

"He may have your heart," Jasper pants. "But I have your body. My marks will cover you one day, and every time he sees it, he'll know. You're mine. You're fucking mine."

The venom burns like fire, but I manage to hold my scream and give Jasper a tight lipped whimper instead, because the sound of tires crunching tiny pebbles signals _his _return. It's been nine hours and thirty seven minutes since he left for work this morning and still my body hums with excitement at seeing him. It's a base reaction, I suppose, something I can't help because God knows, I've tried.

In a way, I hate him, as well. My eternity will be bleak and empty because he just had to have _her_. Couldn't he see how perfect we were? Didn't he know that he was everything?

He did, but it didn't matter.

But still, I smile and play her favorite pieces on the piano. I stay and pretend to be happy with Jasper, grant _him_ with smiles to avoid his guilt at my misery. I play the part of _his_ adopted son with perfection so that his happy existence can stay intact. _He_ should always, forever, be happy.

Jasper is getting close, grunting in that unmistakable way. It won't be the end, though, not when he's like this. He'll fuck me, over and over again, if not for any reason but to ensure that _he _hears us.

"We could be perfect, you know. Feel it, baby. I know you can." He's babbling now, as he usually does. Fierce words laced with a plea. "Tell me what to fucking do, Edward. I'll do it. Tell me how to make you love me."

I don't answer, it would be pointless. We've been through this more times than I can count. When he first joined the coven, he knew almost immediately how I felt for Carlisle. It was impossible to hide with his gift, he sensed my emotions right from the start. Even still, he couldn't stop his desire for me, and that was something I understood all too well.

Jaspers cock jerks violently, and he spills himself inside of me with a pained groan. For the millionth time, I feel remorse for what I put him through every day.

Pressing his lips to my throat, he runs his tongue over my latest scar, breathing heavily in my ear. "Tell me how to make you look at me, the way you always look at him." His words are rhetorical, I know that. If I could change it, I would.

I can hear _him, _chattering away with his wife, telling her about the patients he's seen today and then the gentle smack of lips as they kiss passionately. All too clearly, I can remember the feel of those lips on my own. Feel the heat of his body as he hovered above me, smiling widely as I ran my fingers through his golden hair. And the press of his hips as he pushed inside of me the last time, chanting in his mind over and over, "I love you, I love you, I love you."

But with all of these memories comes a pain that never seems to dull, no matter how many years go by. A twisting jolt of agony in the place where my heart used to be. And as always, it's too much to bear.

So, instead, I arch myself up into his replacement and sigh.

Instead, I listen to the rain.

"~***~"

Thanks for reading!


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